We hit the stairs together, moving in a synchronised dance of violence. A guard at the top of the landing tries to bring a shotgun to bear, but I’m faster. I put two in his throat, and he tumbles down the stairs, his boots clattering against the wood in a frantic, dying rhythm.
We reach the heavy oak door to the VIP lounge. The music is muffled here, replaced by the frantic sound of furniture being moved inside.
“Silas,” I breathe, my hand on the handle. “He’s in there.”
Hook stands next to me, his breathing barely elevated. He taps the hook against the wood of the door—tap, tap, tap. A mocking, polite little knock.
“Silas, darling,” Hook calls out, his voice back to that terrifying, silken velvet. “Open up. Peter is in a terrible mood because I blew up your front door, and honestly, I’m starting to feel a bit unappreciated.”
The silence from the other side is deafening.
“I’m counting to three,” Hook continues, his eyes locking onto mine, the arctic blue glowing with a deranged, obsessive light. “On three, I stop being polite. And you know how I get when I’m impolite.”
Hook doesn’t wait for three. He doesn’t even wait for two.
He kicks the door with a violence that shatters the frame, the heavy oak splintering like matchsticks. The room inside is a sharp contrast to the neon blood of the club—all mahogany, leather, and the cloying, expensive scent of Cuban tobacco.
Silas is there, but he’s not behind the desk. He’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the rain-slicked city, holding a trembling waitress by the hair. He has a jagged piece of a broken crystal decanter pressed against her jugular. The girl’s eyes are rolled back in her head, her breath coming in tiny, pathetic wheezes.
“James,” Silas gasps, his face a sickly shade of grey. “Stay back. I swear to God, I’ll open her up.”
Hook doesn’t stop. He walks into the room with his hands down at his sides, stepping over a fallen chair. He looks bored. He looks like he’s checking the time.
“You’re shaking, Silas,” Hook says, his voice a low, melodic thrum. “It’s embarrassing. You’re getting sweat on that very expensive rug, and honestly, the girl isn’t worth the dry cleaning bill.”
“I’ll do it!” Silas screams, the glass nicking the girl’s skin. A single, bright red bead of blood blossoms against her throat.
I raise my gun, the barrel levelled right between Silas’s eyes. My vision is tunnelling. All I see is the blood on that girl’s neck and all I feel is the phantom weight of Wendy’s ghost. “Where is she, Silas? Give me a nameand I might let James kill you quickly.”
“I don’t know!” Silas shrieked, backing toward the window, dragging the girl with him. “Viktor handled the transfer himself! He said she was special—high tier. He didn’t put her on the manifest!”
Hook stops three feet away. He tilts his head, the light from the city silhouetting him into something jagged and inhuman. “Special,” he repeats, the word tasting like poison. “High tier.”
Then, without a word of warning, Hook moves.
He doesn’t go for the gun. He doesn’t go for the girl. He lunges forward and drives the surgical steel of his hook straight through Silas’s bicep.
Silas howls, a sound so raw it vibrates the glass in the windows. The decanter shard falls from his hand, shattering on the floor. Hook doesn’t let go. He uses the hook like a meat cleaver, wrenching Silas away from the girl and slamming him face-first onto the mahogany desk.
“Peter, get the girl out,” Hook says, his voice silken in total, terrifying calm.
I grab the waitress by the waist, hauling her toward the door. She’s sobbing, her legs giving out, but I shove her into the hallway. “Run. Don’t look back. Just fucking run.”
I turn back to the room. Hook has Silas pinned. He’s pulled the man’s hand flat against the desk, and he’s slowly, methodically, tracing the tip of the hook over Silas’s fingernails.
“James, we don’t have time for the theatrics,” I growl, my heart hammering. “He said Viktor handled it. We need Viktor.”
“Viktor is a ghost,” Hook whispers, leaning down until his lips are brushing Silas’s ear. “But ghosts have shadows. Silas, tell me… did the man who bought her have a name? Or just a bank account?”
“He—he didn’t use a name!” Silas sobs, his forehead pressed against the wood. “Just a mark! A black coin! Please, James, I have kids?—”
Hook’s face contorts into a dark, jagged grin. “Kids. How sweet. I hope they’re better at talking than you are.”
He raises the hook, the steel glinting with Silas’s blood. “The black coin, Silas. That’s the auction. Which one? The one in the city or the one in the woods?”
“The woods!” Silas screams. “The old estate! Please!”
Hook stands up straight, his eyes meeting mine. The arctic blue is gone, replaced by a flat, dead white. He doesn’t look like my friend. He looks like a monster that’s finally been let off its leash.
